


The Umbrella Betrayal

by TheScarecrowsCrow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Mycroft Holmes, Cheeky Greg Lestrade, Good-Guy-Greg, M/M, Mycroft Being Difficult, Pre-Slash, Sunburn, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarecrowsCrow/pseuds/TheScarecrowsCrow
Summary: After an incident with an umbrella leaves Mycroft burnt to a crisp, a well-meaning Greg steps up to help him (even if his help isn't entirely appreciated).





	The Umbrella Betrayal

One man alone could never regret anything quite to the degree that Mycroft Holmes found himself regretting his decision at this exact moment in time. He knew his own body well enough to know that the sun and his skin never got along – that much was a well-tested fact that couldn’t be disputed. With a complexion like his, he could have expected no less - his ginger hair and pale skin testament to his aversion to the sun. However, with his line of work, he often found himself in the position of being in much sunnier foreign countries, and when he was attempting to delegate with a particularly ruthless politician, he was told that the only way they would be having a conversation regarding work was if they were to do so on a beach. He personally found the seaside to be rather distasteful and dirty, yet this politician was insistent that work was tedious, so they might as well have ‘fun’ whilst they were discussing it.  
As a man who is as good at his job as Mycroft is, he of course had agreed to the terms and that had been how he found himself in trunks at an admittedly beautiful private beach. Unfortunately, this politician had been of the idea that they should be walking around the beach, not sitting under an umbrella where Mycroft could protect his precious skin. No matter how much sun cream he had slathered all over his body, he almost immediately started to notice the telling redness that his arms and knees were turning. Determined to finish his work, Mycroft braved the sun in a desperate battle for almost a whole hour. By this point, he was feeling distinctly lobster-like, his face and front the worst of all, and he had insisted that he needed to go sit under an umbrella now that all mentions of work were out of the way. Even though the other politician wasn’t exactly best pleased about the suggestion, he had reluctantly agreed upon taking in Mycroft’s sunburn for what must have been the first time throughout the trip. Mycroft trudged through the sand towards where the umbrella of sanctuary stood, sighing in contentment the very second that the shade touched his poor skin. He lay on his front, entirely too jet lagged and burnt for this nonsense, oh how Sherlock would laugh when he got back home.  
The decision to lie under an umbrella had, at the time, seemed entirely reasonable. It was after all providing a very pleasant shade. At some point, the ridiculous politician had wandered off to a nearby beach bar, and Mycroft didn’t realise that his tiredness was sneaking up on him due to the fact he wasn’t having to focus on providing stupid small talk to an even more idiotic simpleton. Yes, the decision to lie under an umbrella had been good until he had fallen asleep. How was Mycroft to know that the umbrella would be blown away near minutes afterwards? An umbrella had never betrayed him before.

 

Sherlock had sat bolt upright when his phone had gone off, and he had lunged his full body towards the welcome noise with his arm stretched outwards, reaching desperately. This had consequently caused him to fall off his couch, and he scrambled in a most ridiculous fashion, knees scraping on the ground as it took him several attempts to get in the vicinity of his phone. With phone in hand, he managed to stand up straight, and he irrationally looked around the room to make sure no one had just seen his bizarre reaction, even though he would have heard them coming up the stairs if anyone had been there to witness it. He dusted off his bathrobe, and his demeanour instantaneously changed to the in-charge, arrogant consulting detective that everyone knew, as though his outburst had never actually happened in the first place. His knee scrapes and the fact he was slightly out of breath did say otherwise though.  
He calmly turned his attention to his phone, desperately hoping beyond all hope that Lestrade had had another murder that required his expertise. Going two days without a decent murder was far too long for him. His heart had briefly sped up when he read that the sender was in fact Lestrade, but upon reading the text, he had to exercise some self-control to not throw his phone at the wall adjacent.  
Hey Sherlock, was wondering if there’s something wrong with Mycroft? He was meant to meet me for our monthly get-together to discuss work, and he cancelled last minute. He’s never done that. He always makes time for it, even if he can only spare a few minutes? It’s weird, he never even gave a reason.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and bodily slumped towards the ground, landing on his sore knees before replying. He typed with particularly forceful thumbs, as if in an attempt to convey just how angry he was with Lestrade for annoying him about something as mundane as his brother.  
For God’s sake Gav, I have no idea why you care about something as stupid as that, though I dare admit that you mustn’t be as stupid as you look if you realised something was wrong with him. My brother is… unwell. In fact, his symptoms are incredibly hilarious. You should go and visit him! He’d simply love that. Also I know that you two get together to discuss me, not work, so don’t even attempt to suggest otherwise. It’s insulting. -SH  
Sherlock grinned maniacally, typing out his brother’s address before sending it off. If he couldn’t have his fun, then at least he could make his own by harassing Mycroft.

 

Greg stood hesitantly on Mycroft’s front porch, entirely intimidated by the sheer size of the townhouse. How could one man need so much space to live in? He adjusted his bags that he had brought with him so that he had a free hand to buzz the intercom. He had bought some unobtrusive flowers from his local newsagents, but they had started to wilt given that they had been sitting in the shop all day and had been on display for god knows how long. He had also deemed it customary to bring some booze, but was starting to think that might be a bad idea in case Mycroft was on medication that he couldn’t mix alcohol with, so all he had succeeded in doing was bringing temptation literally to his doorstep. He personally thought that he looked ridiculous, standing there with flowers and drink like an apologetic boyfriend who was in the dog house and attempting to fix things with his significant other. For God’s sake, Mycroft was only a colleague, why did he even come here in the first place? He found that he couldn’t answer that.  
Resigned to his stupidity, he shakily reached up and pressed the buzzer firmly, only once. He waited patiently for a whole thirty seconds, before he started to reach up again and was cut off by Mycroft’s gravelly voice over the speaker.  
“Hello?” Greg frowned upon hearing his voice, perhaps Mycroft was feeling far worse than Sherlock had indicated if his voice was anything to go by. “Hey Mycroft, it’s me, Greg. Sherlock said you weren’t feeling well, and suggested I come visit you? Are you alright?” Greg almost sighed at how stupid he perceived himself to sound, anticipating that Mycroft would start shouting at him to leave (even if that wasn’t in Mycroft nature). After a few moments, he eventually replied, “Oh I’ll bet he did. Well, now that you’ve heard my voice and know that I am fine, you can leave, I appreciate the thought.” Greg noted that a few of Mycroft’s words had an impressively hidden hiss of pain laced through them, and suddenly he felt the desire to not leave until he had at least seen Mycroft in the flesh.  
“Perhaps I should come in for a few minutes, double check.” Greg waited patiently, staring determinedly at the intercom as though Mycroft would materialise through it and glare at him until he left. Mycroft sighed, obviously having heard something like conviction in Greg’s voice, and knew the man was resolute on getting his way. “Fine, if you simply must enter, then do so. I won’t be great company in this state, I have no idea why you’re so insistent. I’m in the living room, sorry I can’t take your coat.” Mycroft thereafter grumbled unintelligibly in a language that was definitely not English before Greg heard the noise of the door automatically unlocking.  
Opening the door cautiously, he stepped over the threshold of the townhouse. The first thing that he noted was that all of the lights in the house were turned off, and if the darkness was anything to go by, then all of the curtains must have been drawn too. He shut the door behind him, venturing carefully down the hallway, desperately hoping that he wouldn’t trip over anything as he went. He had no idea where he was going, he had never been to Mycroft’s house before, and he doubted that he would even be able to navigate it with the lights on given how big the place was. He was about to call out when Mycroft beat him to it, signalling his position in the house with a half-hearted shout, “I’m in here, Detective Inspector!”. It would have been reassuring at this point if he knew for certain whether this wasn’t just some elaborate plot to have him assassinated, because given the setting it was certainly starting to feel that way.  
Greg turned towards the sound and walked in its direction, reaching out with his free hand, feeling what appeared to be an archway that hopefully led into the living room. “Mycroft, are you in here? Is this the right room?” Greg was feeling along the wall for a light switch or something that would allow him to actually understand what was going on. “Don’t turn on the lights please.” Mycroft’s firm voice had almost caused Greg to hesitate, but he just kept searching for the switch, “No Mycroft, I know you like to be all cloak and dagger most of the time, but sitting in the dark in your own home is just ridiculous!” Mycroft had started to make noises of protestation (in a way that sounded very similar to his brother half the time), but before he could actually find the words, Greg had managed to find the light switch. He gave out a call of success as he flipped it and turned towards where Mycroft’s voice had been coming for.  
“Yeaaaa-ouch!” Greg’s grin of triumph had turned to a look of shock as he stared at Mycroft’s sickly frame. The man had his eyes scrunched shut against the lights, wearing only checked pyjama bottoms, a grey short-sleeved t-shirt and a very grumpy expression at Greg’s inability to follow simple instructions. His skin was absolutely red raw, the sunburn leaving its particularly cruel mark all over his exposed body.  
“Oh Mycroft… how long have you been sitting here?” his eyes roamed over the man, taking in his discomfort and pain. Mycroft just shrugged which was in itself something so casual, Greg had never seen him do it before, and the action caused him to wince and groan. “Mycroft, seriously, how long have you been sitting here?” Greg crossed his arms in defiance, unsatisfied with Mycroft’s response.  
Mycroft cast him a pained look, before finally answering. “A few hours maybe… I sent my assistant home. I can’t stand to be seen like this but… I find my movement to be rather restricted. Could you… please pass me over that glass of water.” He gestured with his eyes, refusing to lift his arm to actually point at it. Greg stood frozen for a moment, before stepping over and grabbing the glass of lukewarm water, bringing the straw inside it up to Mycroft’s lips. He watched them wrap around the plastic, forming a tight seal, and Mycroft looked at Greg with a grateful expression.  
“You are far too prideful Mycroft. Asking for some help every now and then doesn’t make you any less intimidating, I can assure you.” He gave the politician a tight-lipped smile, and he went to put the glass back on its coaster. “I suppose you are right Gregory; I really could be doing with some help right now.” Mycroft looked defeated, and Greg was somewhat astonished that Mycroft had actually referred to him by his first name, but the look disappeared almost as soon as it was there. “Could you also pass me the painkillers that are sitting on the table? And the water again so that I can actually swallow them.” Greg nodded his acceptance reaching for the pills, Mycroft started to lift his arm, pain evident in his features, when Greg shook his head and lifted his other hand in a clear halting gesture. Mycroft gave him a confused look, but Greg popped the pills out of the packet and smiled at Mycroft in a way that caused him to feel at ease, and he slowly started reaching towards Mycroft’s mouth with the proffered tablets. The politician was slightly perturbed when he realised that Greg was offering to give the medication straight to him, but politeness dictated that he should open his mouth. Greg reached inside just enough so that he could drop the pills, but Mycroft started to close his mouth before Greg had had a chance to fully extract his fingers. He felt the brush of Mycroft’s moistened lips on his fingertips, and the politician actually looked more shocked than Greg had felt at the touch.  
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” Mycroft half mumbled around the pills that were in his mouth, and then he grimaced at the taste they elicited. Greg just laughed out, “Don’t worry about it, here!” He had brought the water back up to Mycroft’s mouth, and he gratefully used it to get rid of the God awful taste. He swallowed them down, relieved that he had managed to consume them on the first try.  
Mycroft sighed once more, small victory forgotten. “I just wish that my skin would hurry up and heal so that I can get back to work.” He glanced up at Greg, and found himself slightly disturbed at the DI’s expression. “What are you thinking about?” Greg glanced down at him absently, “Well I was just thinking that you should put on some after sun. I personally don’t burn, but my sister used to. I would put after sun on her burnt skin when we were younger and it would speed up the healing immensely, especially if it had Aloe-Vera in it. Do you have any after sun?” Mycroft sighed in resignation, “Yes, Anthea bought some for me and left it in a bag over there. I haven’t been able to reach it for… obvious reasons. In fact, if you passed it over to me, I could put some on and I’m sure I would feel significantly better.”  
Greg headed over to the other couch, grabbing the plastic bag. He pulled out the after sun and smiled, “It has Aloe-Vera in it!” He discarded the bag, and walked back towards Mycroft with a childlike expression on his face. He paused, looking disbelievingly at Mycroft when his words caught up with him. “How do you expect to apply this to yourself? You can barely move!” He laughed breathlessly, amused at the Holmes’ inability to ask for help.  
Mycroft scoffed, then winced at the movement, before allowing his eyes to gauge Greg’s intentions, “Well what exactly do you propose then?” His eyebrows furrowed, “Surely you can’t be suggesting…?” Greg tilted his head meaningfully, “Is that a problem?”  
Mycroft looked as though he desperately wished to sink into his couch and become one with the furniture. “A problem? No, not exactly… It just seems somewhat inappropriate considering… We are colleagues – we have a working relationship…” Mycroft can feel sweat beading in his brow, and he knows for a fact that it isn’t being caused by the sunburn radiating heat from his skin, given how dehydrated he already is. Greg rolls his eyes and adopts a nonchalant position, arms crossed once more, “You have got to be kidding me, Mr. Holmes.” He looks towards the wall and forces out a laugh, before slowly turning his dipped head back to Mycroft, maintaining eye contact and opening his mouth in a toothy grin, “Do you think I’m the type to take advantage of anyone ever?” His left brow was teasing his hairline, and he cocked his head to the opposite side, “I mean, unless they asked me to of course.” Yes, Mycroft could feel it now, he and the couch were becoming one. He stared up at Greg unblinkingly, desperately trying to discern whether he was joking or not. Believe it or not, he couldn’t for the life of him read Greg in his current state. Memorised body language tells and tone inflections were completely out of the window right now. That devilish smile being sent his way was thee most disarming thing that he had ever seen.  
“I don’t, uhm, believe you to be that kind of person Gregory. I’m sorry for the implication? It was not intended, I can promise you that.” Mycroft continued to stare up at Greg, slight desperation visible in his expression and once again refusing to blink. Greg’s features morphed into great amusement, as he took in Mycroft’s discomfort. It was nice to have the upper hand for once. “I’m just messin’ with you. Come on, let’s get this stuff on you so you can get me out of your hair.” Greg opened the bottle and took a step closer to the government official, “Wait! I don’t remember agreeing to that!” Mycroft started to push himself away from the offending DI, but immediately regretted the pain it caused. Greg looked up from the bottle in his hand, face completely blank, “In that case, maybe I am offended by your implication?” His eyes shined with a false sadness, but Mycroft wasn’t to know about the DI’s sincerity, “Wait, wait… What I mean is that I haven’t agreed _yet_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking this is most likely going to be a two chapter story, but I can always change that if people like it.


End file.
